Special Occasion
by FALKENHAYN
Summary: Christian dives into an ocean of Anastasia's pleasure, only to discover that the water may be deeper than he first thought.


This evening was a special occasion for Christian. Despite the variety of sexual escapades that he had enjoyed with Anastasia, he had yet to sandwich his aesthetic visage upon the entrance of the tomb where his semen came to die. The boy billionaire had promised her that tonight, finally, he would do the deed.

Christian eased his way from the tip of her big toe upwards, in their typical foreplay ritual. Her flesh was a series of delicious tender morsels, ready to be devoured by his ravenous appetite for female flavour. His teasing appendage rotated from just above her kneecap to the farthest outreaches of her genital region, leaving a light graze of fluid behind. The bodily liquid shimmered ever so slightly in the mood lighting from above, reminiscent of an old-fashioned Indian restaurant. Anastasia shook with vigor as his tongue completed its foreplay exercise, thrills shooting up her spine at the mere thought of such tempting teasing.

"Ram my cunt with your stiffening wood, Christian. Please, I beg of you, my inner goddess is sacrificing virgins in the name of your love," said Anastasia.

As an alpha male asshole, Christian of course ignored her pleas for penetration, instead continuing his progress up her nether regions. By now, his tongue resembled the shape of a Twizzler, having performed erotic gymnastics upon the inside of Anastasia's left thigh. His sweet-sensing tongue tip touched the outskirts of her labia, feeling the prickly sensation of her freshly-mowed lawn. There was also a familiar stench, but not that of grass which had been recently lacerated by a trimming implement - no, this was the odor of private parts which had been held too long prisoner by a pair of cheap department store panties. Christian wrinkled his nose momentarily before diving into the deep end of his dear lover's vacant trench. His tongue, as though it were a cruise missile aimed directly at the core of Anastasia's uterus, pierced the outer layers of her lightly pulsating lips. The young woman moaned the trillionaire's name, amazed that a tiny crimson organ could offer the same pleasure of his ten-inch tower.

"Yes, Christian," she managed to state between enjoyable guffaws. "Stick your tongue into me! Fuck me with it!" Once again, the dominant millionaire ignored her command; no words from her mouth were important enough to sway his gentle course. His tongue orbited the innards of her vaginal interior, alternating with pressure to the north of the cavity in hopes of one day venturing to the mystical, semi-fictional land of the g-spot.

Christian's right index finger joined his tongue in a dance of destructive desire, both spinning in a figure eight motion, or perhaps the sign of infinity, a metaphor for the eternal love shared between the pair. The tongue and finger worked in beautiful synchronization. Had this feat taken place in open air rather than the confines of Anastasia's vaginal folds, it would have been a sight to behold, with the wiggling finesse of a mid-80s Cliff Burton solo. Anastasia felt the oh-so-familiar yet distant burning sensation gestating in her midsection; it accumulated between her legs, as though forming a dormant volcano of desire. She arched her back in anticipation, squirming more under Christian's nearly-mechanical pleasuring.

Anastasia felt the burning eruption deep within her, as her lover tongued relentlessly. Lavish yet gentle penetration was her one-way ticket to ecstasy, as she shoved his face towards her with both palms. The descent of his organ increased ever so slightly, tapping the feminine easy-button that was Anastasia's g-spot. The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. Clear fluid with the consistency of fresh spring rain sprayed Christian's face with astonishing force, like a bulldozer slamming through a city water line. He pulled back with a shocked look as Anastasia continued to moan and writhe, the final gushers of her love fading into obscurity.

Christian was dripping, as though he had dived face-first into a pool of cerebrospinal fluid, with the erotic evidence of his performance seeping deeply into his vermilion bed sheets. The mattress below too fell victim to the Katrinaesque deluge. The highest Sleep Number model (A millionaire such as Christian would have nothing but top-shelf) sputtered and sparked as the moisture sank in. Liquid found its way back to the controller, itself eternally set at sixty-nine. The conductivity of the feminine discharge caused a chain reaction, resulting in the controller simply going off like a bomb. Before the pair of lovers knew what had occurred, the entire room was awash in flames. Christian and Anastasia's frail human forms decayed in the ensuing firestorm, before the disintegrating structures of both made their way to the floor. Nothing more than a pile of ashen remains, Christian was, truly, grey.


End file.
